Blood and Water
by C.J.Ellison
Summary: -Full Summary Inside- It was one fight- one stupid, vicious fight- too many. Suddenly England and America find themselves hurled into another world, grounded three hundred years in the past, and a situation that will force them to finally bridge the chasm. Features a Pirate!Human!AU; some UK/OC, but focus is brotherly USUK.
1. Prologue: The Fracture

Full Summary:  
_It was one fight- one stupid, vicious fight- too many. But before the fracture between them could crack into a chasm, the world slammed it shut by hurling Britain and America into another world- and another life entirely, one of human limitations and a simple twist in history, grounded three hundred years in the past. Sometimes it takes the most impossible and adverse of circumstances to bridge a gap once and for all: for Arthur and Alfred, that is a world where King James III successfully ascended the British Throne, an English princess is kidnapped, there is a secret conspiracy to usurp the king, and a false accusation of treason sends a young, ruthless privateer for the British Crown on a mission to see his brother a free man again- no matter the cost. _

_Includes a heavy side-dish of England/Fem!OC, but the main course is brotherly USUK._

_**A/N:** See that? **Brotherly**. Sorry slash fans, but USUK is my ultimate bro-ship._

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**B-L-O-O-D- - -A-N-D- - -W-A-T-E-R**

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_For Sophie  
I know it's late- but happy birthday  
And thanks for getting me into Hetalia_

_..._

_You bitch, I'll never forgive you for this._

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**.:~*~:.**

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"_Blood is thicker than water, but true family knows no such distinction."_

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Prologue  
_The Fracture_

_March 5, 1946_

It was déjà vu, in the worst sense imaginable.

The waterlogged field of mud and sludge on American soil, leaden clouds shrouding the sun, the ragged treeline of a dense forest bordering the edges of their vision, rain like splinters of ice, cold clammy air, distance in infinitely more than yards, the nauseating feeling of the world hurtling ahead of them out of all control. They both knew; they could feel it. It was all so familiar, all so horribly familiar. The deafening roar of the rain crushed in on them, droplets gathering in the strands of their blonde hair, weighing heavily on their lashes, breath crystallising in frozen plumes. Anger and resentment tautened the air between them, the scar tissue of old untreated wounds splitting open and bleeding fresh. It was supposed to have been such a good day: Churchill and Roosevelt, they were comrades in arms, allies, friends, even- and so were _they_. They had become so close during the war so quickly and so easily, working and fighting together, shoulder to shoulder, as equals; it wasn't the same as before, it probably never would be, but that was fine- they would take what they could get, and in this case what they could get was pretty damn good. Today Churchill was even supposed to be making a speech that day at a college in Fulton, Missouri; the English-speaking nations were all inexorably linked, Roosevelt and Churchill both said. And now, with tensions growing with the Soviet Union, it was time to show a united front between them- not just between Britain and America, but Canada and Australia and New Zealand as well. And both Alfred and Arthur had agreed- and almost eagerly- without even the slightest moment of hesitation.

And now- somehow they were arguing again, the worst they had argued in years, and everything was disintegrating beneath them like ash.

"When the hell are you going to _get it into your head already_?! I don't need you, Britain! Hell, I _never_ needed you!"

"You- y-you ungrateful _brat_! I rescued you from the frog, protected you, practically raised you on my own- I'm even getting involved in this goddamn conflict with Russia for you, which, by the way, could turn into _World War III_- and you say that _you never needed me_?! Damn it, America, you have your bloody independence! What more do you-"

"Yeah, and ever since you've been just _waiting_ for me to screw up! Expecting me to fail! You always treat me like your stupid kid brother, too useless to do _anything_ alone, always needing _your_ guidance! Well _I'm not_, and I _don't_!"

"You've made that _abundantly_ clear!"

"But you never _listen_!"

"_What the hell do you think I'm still doing standing here?!_"

"Getting off on the sound of your own voice and refusing to listen to anyone else-"

"You _hypocrite_!"

"Tea-drinking_ bastard_!"

"Insufferable _prick_!"

"_Control freak_!"

"_Spoilt, self-important arse_!"

The pewter skies snarled with a distant, ominous crash of thunder. The estranged brothers barely noticed, too immersed in their spite-fuelled battle to care.

"Oh, coming from _the great, failed British Empire_!" Alfred laughed hysterically, his sky-blue eyes glinting with malice. "You want to know something, dude? I wish that I could have been adopted by _France_! At least his colonies had some kind of respect for _him_! You were an _awful_ empire, and you were an _awful_ big brother! I- _I hate you, Britain!_"

The skies suddenly flashed, the dark steel clouds fracturing for a split second with a single bolt of lightning.

Those words had been said before. It had only happened once or twice, during the Revolution, when tensions and emotions had been running high and Arthur had always been able to forgive it- Alfred had blurted them out in the heat of a moment, shoulders shaking in frustration and eyes misting over, and each time his brother had taken the blow and pushed it aside. But this time- this time the words found their mark, and _cut_. Alfred might as well have plunged a knife into his chest.

Arthur's jaw tightened, absinthe irises glinting with pain and a sudden, mad desire for retribution. "Oh? That's interesting," he said coldly. "I was about to say the exact same thing, America."

Alfred blinked, his voice disappearing in his throat. Never had Arthur used such a tone with _him_ before- no matter how hard he pushed, Arthur either remained as steady as a rock, or flared up to hide the wound. This sharp, sheer voice of pure ice- he had only ever heard it used on those that Arthur had the utmost contempt and hatred for. Alfred's heart plummeted at the realisation.

Somehow, somewhere, he had crossed a line.

"Which reminds me- since you seem so intent on dredging up the past, how about we talk about a few other things, hm?" Arthur continued with a disturbingly smooth tone, his chin lifting gracefully. Alfred felt a shudder crawl up his spine at his nonchalant, mock-thoughtful air. "For instance, I've been meaning to tell you for a while how much the entire world _despises_ you. Might have something to do with your little stumble with the Wall Street Crash and its disastrous results for the global market, or maybe just the fact that you're an obnoxious bastard with more brawn than brains."

Alfred flinched. His carelessness and excessive spending during the Roaring Twenties and the fallout of Black Tuesday- they were hardly his proudest moments, and he still felt the ache of the Great Depression weighing down on him, like remnants of lead left in his bloodstream.

"Oh, and, of course- I never did tell this you, did I?" For the briefest second, a flicker of hesitation contaminated the steely look in Arthur's eyes, his black leather gloves creaking as they stretched across his knuckles, muscles convulsing in protest. Any other time, he might have broken, conjured up some weak insult out of nowhere and otherwise held his tongue. Because to say this was callous- and a lie.

But those words-

_I hate you, Britain!_

- had _hurt_.

"_I… don't regret giving you heartburn, America_."

Alfred's hand reflexively clenched over the centre of his chest, his sapphire eyes widening from behind the rain-stippled lenses of his glasses. _The burning of Washington, 1814._ He still had the scar, the ugly little mottled burn wound, along with all of the others. He could still remember the way the flames licked up inside his chest, scorching his sternum, searing his throat, the pain trailing through his ribs. He swallowed, hard.

"I guess they were wrong," he said quietly, his gaze blank as it rose to look his former brother in the eyes. "Roosevelt and Churchill. They were… wrong about us."

The rain cast a shimmering silver veil between them, like a shower of needles. "So it would seem," Arthur replied hollowly.

Both of them were frosting over, freezing out the pain with apathy, quietly making themselves numb. It was even worse to outright arguing; at least then, there was emotion involved. Anger meant that you had to matter to someone; hatred meant that there was a reason behind the attack; hostility meant that there was something to fix. But indifference- that was the worst for letting tiny hairline fractures in an already precarious foundation creak and splinter with the strain, the spider-silk fine fissure creeping steadily, dangerously, deeper…

The world seethed with the sound of the rain, hissing like acid.

"We should call off this thing at the college. It was a stupid idea in the first place."

"Considering the circumstances, that would be best."

More indifference. The fissure yawned wider, the fragments jerking out of place and slipping against each other, grinding agonisingly.

The clouds roiled like liquid iron, silently twisting into a furious maelstrom.

"Well, then." Alfred gestured vaguely, almost helplessly, staring determinedly at the treeline for fear of letting the threat of tears close up his throat. The nation- the young man- who was once his brother looked no more stable, his arms folded over his chest and hands clenching the fabric of his sleeves in a death grip, as though physically holding himself together, glaring into the earth.

At the same moment, they took a step back from each other, half-turning to walk away.

The wind roared and shuddered, the clouds shivered like vibrating glass, the earth seemed slip away briefly, like water. And then, with a roll of thunder that sounded like waves made of mountains crumbling over themselves, a sound that was too strange, too powerful, to unnaturally loud-

_CRACK!_

A bolt of pure blindingly-white lightning pierced the dark midday like a flare, splitting the gloom, and striking the ground exactly midway between the two nations.

Their vision exploded with sparks of fire, the shock blasting a nimbus of mud and silt and white water and blistering steam into the chilled air, a surge of solid air punching into them and knocking the breath clean out of their lungs.

As their backs slammed to the rain-soaked ground, the world faded black, and shattered.


	2. Chapter I: English Rose

_**A/N:** Okay- so the response to this _blew my freaking mind_. Virtual cookies for all of you lovely awesome people._

_And, sweet zombie Jezus, is this chapter is long._

_… Like,_ really_ long._

_First off, I suppose I should give you the reasons as to why you shouldn't be stoning me to death for taking so long to get this out. First off: research. It may be an alternate universe with an entirely different monarch and political atmosphere to real history, but I at least wanted some authenticity to my Pirate!verse- and as much as I love Captain Jack Sparrow and Edward Kenway, I categorically refuse to rely on _Pirates of the Caribbean _and _Assassin's Creed IV: Black Flag _for historical accuracy. __So there's that. Also: not only am I working my way up to some pretty crucial exams right now (so be grateful, I gave up revision for you guys), this monster of a chapter is way longer than I intended. I was going for three thousand words, tops. But there's a mother-load of establishment that I wanted to get over and done with, so this behemoth is what you're getting instead. Um, yeah._

_Anyway- with that said, **time to plunge into our Pirate!verse**. This is **where we're going to be spending most of the story arc**, so some **ground rules**: **this is kind of like a 'past life' experience, **except in a **different universe**, which means that** the nations are human, **and** have no knowledge of their lives as nations in the regular Hetalia!verse**. Well… not consciously, anyway (foreshadowforeshadowforeshadowlulz). Also, **OCs ahoy, and featured predominantly in this chapter**. But they're important plot devices, so please don't lynch me- at least not yet._

_And also: yeah, I use other languages, including French, in this chapter. And while, yes, I have relatives who speak various dialects of French fluently, and yes, I won the Modern Foreign Languages award when I was in Year Nine, and yes, I was able to pick it up pretty fast once upon a time- I'm still a lazy, dumb Brit who never took it at a higher level, much as she wanted to. I used Google Translate, back-translated it to see if it still made sense, and shifted bits and pieces to fit the context (like the whole formality issue concerning the uses of the pronouns for 'you'). But if it's wrong, please feel free to criticise me. Same goes for any other languages I use throughout._

_None of what is being said in this chapter is particularly crucial to the plot, and I normally dislike doing this, but for the sake of argument I'll put the **translations** here (because I'm nice- ha, I couldn't even type that with a straight face)._

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_gratia in nomen, gratia in natura_ - - - Latin: grace in name, grace in nature

_Tu êtes aussi belle et sauvage comme la mer dans cette robe, votre Altesse. Je pense que mon cousin serait pleurait avec fierté s'il pouvait nous voir._ - - - French: You are as beautiful and wild as the sea in that dress, your Highness. I think my cousin would be weeping with pride if he could see us.

_La vie ici est terne sans toi. Mais, dites-moi, comment vas-tu? Comment s'est passé votre temps au Pays de Galles?_ - - - French: Life here is dull without you. But tell me, how are you? How was your time in Wales?

_Mais moins de cela!_ - - - French: But less of this!

_n'êtes-tu pas?_ - - - French: are you not?

_C'était merveilleux. Vous devez avoir pratiqué pendant si longtemps - - -_ French: It was marvellous. You must have practiced for so long

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**.:~*~:.**

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"_Impossibilities are merely the greatest triumphs that have not been achieved._

… Yet._"_

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Chapter I  
_English Rose_

_June 23, 1726_

Midsummer heat filtered through the array of tall, sparkling windows facing the outer walls of the palace, the blazing rays subsiding as the sun's high arc began to list towards the horizon, dyeing the clear blue skies into shades of apricot and peach and vanilla blushed with strawberry pink. The vast grounds surrounding the royal estate chirped with the lilting calls of birds and the creak of crickets, a lazy breeze rippling through the trees, the world outside languorous as the world contained within the palace walls laboured frantically. Exotic wines were being hauled up from the cellars in massive crates; fresh pale beeswax candles and fat frilled blossoms ornamented every few feet of the ballroom's gilded walls, crammed into porcelain vases and brass holders, every inch of the floor polished to a mirror-like gloss; the kitchens and servants passages were a hive of activity, choked with billows of steam and the clatter of silverware and the churning flurry of footsteps and fabric and voices. A couplet of maids walked the length of one of the quieter hallways, one carrying a stack of fresh linen and the other with a copper bucket full of ashes slung over the crook of her elbow, their capped heads bowed together as they eagerly gossiped about the multitude of nobility attending the masquerade and all that they knew about the unattainable glamour of the king's court. Just as the first was detailing to her redheaded friend what one of the other scullery maids had overheard last week while she was cleaning the fireplace in the west-wing parlour, she glanced up and suddenly blanched, her voice tailing away guiltily. The redhead frowned, following her friend's gaze, and felt her heart jump into her throat.

It was unanimously agreed, at least by those whose opinions mattered, that Princess Katherine was the favourite of King James' daughters. The nineteen year old was blessed her mother's cornflower-blue eyes, soft features and straight flaxen hair, and a rare sense of imperial duty, diplomacy and absolute power over the empire that was no doubt inherited from her father. As heir presumptive to the British throne- and more than likely the future Queen Regnant, with His Majesty refusing to so much as entertain the possibility of a second marriage, even to strengthen political ties or sire a male heir- the princess was widely revered, both by obsequious nobles and the impartial masses. Her virtues made her easy to admire, and her sincerity made her difficult to dislike.

However, it was just as equally agreed that, even as a striking contrast to her sister, the second-born princess lived up to her name entirely.

Dressed in a simple gown of cream and white, Princess Grace hadn't even noticed the presence of the two maids. Even so, the sight of her was still enough to make their steps falter nervously. Younger than Katherine by a year and a half, Grace was lissom and dark and brilliant where her sister was tall and willowy and mellow, possessing a cool, sharp elegance, both women noticed with chilled fascination- like silk hiding a sharpened blade. Gazing out of the windows and across the smooth lawns, she ran her fingertips lightly along the leaded glass as she passed, her face angled towards the light and her hair tinted with a flare of sun-fire, torching the rich chocolate strands a smouldering auburn. Both women dipped their heads respectfully as the princess coasted past, watching her out of the corner of their eyes, the royal apparently lost in a labyrinth of her own thoughts. A few moments after they had crossed paths, the two maids hesitantly returned to their hushed chatter, switching to the far safer topic of the latest scandal amongst the servants.

Grace glanced over her shoulder as she heard their conversation strike up again. The moment they had turned the corner and were out of hearing distance, the princess grasped two handfuls of her heavy skirts, hitched them up to her ankles and broke into a sprint.

A little thing like proper etiquette was _not_ going to make her late for her music lesson.

The room wasn't far, and she made it in a good time despite her uncooperative dress. Grace slipped inside the familiar set of double ivory-white doors, smoothing the creases out of her gown and trying her best to appear less openly frustrated and more apologetic as she turned towards the room's sole occupant. Her music teacher of fifteen years was stood waiting for her patiently by the lacquered harpsichord- tall and svelte and dignified, draped in a beautifully-cut cerulean justaucorps coat and a silk cravat, the light skimming around him in shafts of pale gilt pouring through the windows and glinting off his brunette hair. Glancing up from the sheaf of sheet music he had been leafing through, he glanced up at her torn expression, and nodded somewhat sympathetically.

"That new sewing mistress again, I take it."

Grace's shoulders dropped. "It was my simple running stitch this time," she confided exasperatedly, the door snapping shut behind her. Her back pressed against the cool wood. "She told me that the ones I made were too small to be sturdy, and then she spent three minutes trying to rip the seam apart. And in the end it was the _fabric_ that tore, not the thread. And _then_ I made the mistake of pointing out that it didn't exactly need to be sturdy anyway, since there would be no risk of it tearing- because, as she had said herself last week, _young ladies of my stature ought not to exert themselves, lest they risk impropriety_."

Her tutor sighed and placed the sheet music aside on one of the tables, adjusting the stack with his fingertips until it was perfectly parallel to the desk. "I see. Personally I am sure that your sewing was impeccable as ever, but that _was_ something of a foolish comment."

The nettled young princess exhaled sharply, and straightened to give a delicate, well-practiced curtsey. "My apologies, Master Edelstein," she said sincerely.

Roderich returned the gesture without hesitation, bowing gracefully at the waist. "Forgiven, Your Highness- as always. Now then," he gestured towards the music stands, where a beautifully carved violin laid waiting for its owner, "shall we begin? Fortunately I believe that we shall only need a short practice session before this evening."

Grace nodded, striding over to the instrument and carefully lifting it from the ornate hooks, swiping the tiny specks of dust from the mahogany frame of its body and neck before testing the tension of each string. "Never again will I undervalue the worth of a skilled governess," she muttered as she gently tuned one of the strings, fingers skimming over the ebony scroll. Grace noted a small scratch on its polished surface and frowned, annoyed. That wasn't there last time. "I miss Elizabeta horribly. How is she?"

"Doing well," Roderich said mildly, his voice rising lightly amongst the fluttering of pages. "Not that anything less should be expected of a woman as strong and stubborn as she is, but yes- the doctors are very pleased. She is as healthy and happy as I ever could have hoped." He paused. Then, _sotto voce_, "As is our newborn son, as a matter of fact."

Grace's heart froze in her chest. She whirled on her heels to face her teacher incredulously and saw that Roderich was stood perfectly still, staring vacantly through the sheet music held before him and glowing with pride, the smallest but brightest of smiles playing at the corners of his mouth.

The princess paused just long enough to set her violin down, before darting across the room in a swirl of skirts and throwing her arms around her tutor's shoulders, his arms lifting around her slim frame to return the embrace warmly. Roderich began to laugh softly, joyously, and Grace joined him, the sound chiming together in the quiet room. She wondered, since she was hearing it from him and not the gossiping of servants or courtiers, if she was one of the first to know. The thought sent a hot simmer of happiness bubbling up inside her.

"Congratulations," Grace breathed into his ear, glowing with a rare, pure, radiant smile that few ever saw. She felt a droplet of something warm seep through the shoulder of her gown, and her own vision blurred in response, a thick gleam of tears threatening to spill over her lashes.

"Thank you, Grace," Roderich murmured, his voice cautiously muffled in her dark hair. Their lessons were private, but the walls of the palace could never be trusted to keep a secret; both of them knew that such an informal exchange could all too easily lead to vicious rumours. Roderich released the young princess swiftly and adjusted his glasses, and Grace grinned up at him, swiping her thumb beneath her eyes.

"Now, Your Highness- play for me. Let's see if you are ready."

Grace nodded and picked up her instrument, the curve of her jaw holding it steady against her left shoulder, bow aloft, heart batting nervously against her sternum. On his mark, she struck up, her fingers moving swiftly, precisely, bow drawing each note out of the strings in smooth, rapid strokes as she played out the devilishly intricate concerto she had been practicing for months. Roderich's delicate Austrian accent only rose to correct her once or twice as she played, now crisp and clean, light as spring, now slower, deepening, turning languid and suddenly rising like a wave- then strengthening, quickening, until her fingers were flickering rapid-fire along the taut strings, her arm aching in protest. The music felt hollow. She bit down on her lower lip and Roderich told her to stop. Her back straightened reflexively. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Roderich watching her appraisingly.

The pads of her fingers were raw and red as she shuddered through the climax. She drew out a long penetrating note, let it linger, and plunged into the last few bars, playing a refrain of the opening bars- and, _end_. Grace finally breathed out, tears piercing the corners of her eyes.

Roderich caught her shaking hand, gently extricating the bow from her stiff grip. "Good. _Good_."

"_Ow,_" Grace whimpered softly, placing the violin aside.

"I know."

"I prefer the harpsichord."

"I know."

"So why can't I-?"

"You know why." Roderich examined her fingers expertly- deft, slim fingers made for ivory keys, he had told her when she was only five, not harp or violin strings- the opaque flash of his glasses obscuring the extraordinary violet of his eyes. "His Majesty prefers the violin. The harpsichord does not have enough expressive control. The clavichord is too quiet. And His Majesty wanted this piece specifically, and as a sonata, not cantata- so you cannot sing it, as good as your voice is. Therefore you will perform on the violin."

Grace raked her teeth along her lower lip, feeling almost guilty. "I'm never going to be good enough. You must know that. I'm only as good as I am because of you."

Roderich paused to give her a pointed look. "Don't be ridiculous," he said. "Your natural aptitude is for vocals and the harpsichord, and you sing and play very well. That does not automatically make you a poor violinist." He lowered his voice, rubbing the dark violet indentations out of her skin. "And having you to play such a complex piece at your age, on an instrument that is not your strength, is ludicrous anyway."

Grace laughed quietly. "I think you are the only person who would insult my father just to make me feel better," she said in equally low a tone. Roderich smirked in reply.

"Not quite. I am certain that Elizabeta, for one, would start by insulting the entire court first… There." He released her hand and Grace flexed her fingers experimentally, smiling up at him gratefully when she noted that they felt a little less numb. "Try not to do anything with them until the performance, if that is entirely possible. And put your violin back, I will have it bought to the hall tonight."

Grace did as he asked and placed her violin back on the stand, laying her bow next to it, her fingers slipping over the swan-bill head. Roderich watched the guarded young royal thoughtfully. "I received some interesting news from a correspondent of mine in Italy two days ago." He suddenly said. Grace turned around to show him that she was listening- seldom did her tutor waste his words. "An expert harpsichord maker in the employ of the Prince of Tuscany has designed an entirely new mechanism that apparently boasts both the strength in volume and the control needed for larger performances. He calls the new instrument the pianoforte- and from what I have heard, it has received very high praise and is being widely crafted."

The look in his eyes was deliberately speared, and Grace caught his implication immediately.

"The pianoforte," Grace repeated, tasting the name on her tongue, a smile slowly coiling at her lips like rising smoke. "I will mention it to Katherine. Perhaps she can persuade Father to import one."

"Perhaps. We shall hope. But for now, Your Highness," Roderich gestured at the windows. The skies were burning cadmium red and flame-orange with the light of the sunset, "you are dismissed. I will see you tonight."

Grace curtsied and turned to leave. Just before she laid her hand on the door handle, she spoke up. "Master Edelstein- do you think that I'm ready?"

He paused, surprised by the sudden flare of insecurity. "For the calibre of your audience, certainly. Then again, most of them cannot tell a sonata from a hole in the ground."

Anyone else might have been wounded by the somewhat backhanded compliment. As his student who had studied under him for most of her lifetime, Grace smiled wryly, bolstered by his cool, unrelenting honesty. "Thank you. I will try to remember that."

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"Grace? What do you think?"

Pausing in brushing of the waterfall of ash-blonde hair in front of her, feeling the little bundle of heat cuddled into her right side shift ever so slightly, Grace looked up. Katherine, beautiful and blissfully oblivious, stood opposite the chaise lounge where her younger sisters sat as her ladies' maid finished lacing her into her evening gown. She was dressed in swathes of silk, dyed an uncomfortably dark shade that she had never worn before and would have never chosen herself, the deep dusk-pink skirt split to show the elaborately embroidered shift underneath, stippled with red spinel. The bodice was embroidered with contrived curls of rose vines in carmine red thread accented with lustrous gold. The neckline was scooped low and bordered in honey-gold lace and opals, clinging against her skin. Heavy rubies glittered at her throat, droplets of amber caught in the fine web of the net holding up her wheat coloured tresses. Her mouth was painted a guilty red.

_I think our father is the master of subtlety,_ Grace thought sarcastically.

"I think it is beautiful. Father truly has excellent taste," she lied neutrally. Georgiana shifted on her lap, and Grace untangled a snarl from her hair, kissing the crown of her head when the six year old winced. Samantha, barely two years old, hugged Grace's ribs, her own blonde locks already tied in a neat braid.

"He does," Katherine agreed cheerfully, dabbing perfume onto her skin. Grace bit her lip forcefully, chanting several foul and highly unladylike curses in her head and desperately wishing she could spill something on that gorgeous, hideous dress- something that would stain, blueberry juice, mineral oil, soot from the fireplace, her mind supplied frantically- and force her sister to change into something else. Of course Grace understood that this day was inevitable- that their father was going to start displaying Katherine as a future queen seeking consort and auction her off to the highest non-heritor title eventually- but that didn't mean that she had to like it, nor tolerate it. Especially when Katherine was so wondrously, blissfully unaware of it all.

"Your Highnesses," a voice suddenly spoke up from across the chamber. An ageing nursemaid was stood in the parlour doorway, grim faced and dressed in iron grey, crown adorned in a headpiece of black velvet and silver. "Excuse me, but-"

"One minute," Grace cut her off smoothly. Not waiting for a reply from the heavy-set woman she had proudly given countless silver hairs during her childhood, she ran the stiff bristles through Georgiana's hair once last time and began plaiting swiftly.

Georgiana wriggled. "Gracie?"

Grace's fingers kept braiding deftly, almost without thinking. "Yes, sweetheart?"

"Why can't we come tonight?"

"Because we're older," Grace explained simply. "And unfortunately, that means we have to cavort boring old lords and fat self-important barons who like to get drunk, waste money, stuff their faces and pretend that they know everything about everything."

Georgiana's topaz-blue eyes widened innocently. "_Ohh._"

The nursemaid turned an unattractive shade of puce. Katherine paused in adjusting the position of her gold collar to glance at her sister's reflection in the mirror, looking simultaneously amused and scandalised. "Grace-"

"Oh, please, Kat. Tell me I am wrong." Grace tied off the rope of soft blonde hair in front of her with a length of red ribbon and tugged on the end gently. "There we are, little one! All done." She swept a wisp of blonde hair behind her ear. "Good girl, you were very patient."

"You still cannot say it," Katherine interrupted, her tone gentle but firm. The maids silently tensed. Grace arched a dark eyebrow and tugged the drowsy weight of Samantha onto her lap to sit beside Georgiana, wrapping both arms around them and hugging her sisters to her. They clung to her arms, nestled in the lithe cage of her body.

"Says who, exactly? Don't misunderstand me: if _you_ tell me not to say it, then I won't say it," Grace said serenely. "But you are the only one for who I would, Kat. And you know exactly why that is."

Katherine was silent for a moment, hesitating and biting her lower lip- a bad habit picked up from Grace, (_She really must stop that,_ her sister thought casually) and when confronted with this issue was the only time she did it. Because of course she knew why Grace said it, and so brazenly, so unapologetically- Grace did it for the same reason that Grace did almost everything. A part of it was simply _her_, part of her lifelong rebellion, against their father and his lofty claims of 'divine right' and the suffocating control he imposed- and the other half was for Katherine herself.

"You're overprotective of me," Katherine said, completely without conviction.

Grace smiled grimly; she knew that at that very moment, her sister was remembering the incident of one cold autumn night, when Katherine had woken up to find her little sister standing by the open bedroom window in her nightgown, a short blade in her hand and Katherine's would-be murderer lying at her feet.

"No I'm not."

Katherine didn't disagree. Grace kissed her little sister's temples and sighed. "Oh well. I suppose I had better get ready. Come on, sweetlings. Time for bed."

Georgiana protested, but only half-heartedly and mostly out of instinct, and Samantha clung to Grace until she was passed onto the arms of the nursemaid. Watching them leave, Grace picked the pot of red wax and little brush from where they rested on the vanity, stepping forwards to her sister and carefully repainting the blanched marks left in Katherine's mouth left by her teeth.

"You have to stop doing that," she advised, one hand raised to hold Katherine's chin steady. Her eyes glinted up at her sister impishly. "Honestly, sweet sister, do you _want_ to turn into me?"

Katherine laughed, and so did Grace, and some warmth returned to the room, tension unravelling.

"I have a surprise for you," Katherine suddenly announced, a look of excitement glimmering in her eyes. Glancing over Grace's shoulder, she instructed the maids, "Bring it in."

Before Grace could even think of a question to ask, Katherine had already spun her around by the shoulders and pressed both hands over her eyes.

"Kat!"

Her sister laughed. "A _surprise_. Ladies! Hurry up!"

There was a strum of footsteps, a rustle of fabric, and then Katherine's hands suddenly lifted.

Grace couldn't supress a gasp when she saw it. Katherine giggled, embracing her sister from behind, chin resting on Grace's shoulder. The dress that the maids held up was blue silk- pale blue, so pale that it shimmered almost silver where the light caught it- with intricate white lace like sea froth and dark satin ribbons, criss-crossing over centre of the bodice, the colour of the ocean at night. The embroidery was azure and subtle, swirling up the bodice and downward across the skirt, studded with little diamonds like a thousand stars, and threads of tiny seed pearls. The shift had been placed underneath the gown so that she could see what it would look like once it was worn- the sleeves of the gown cinched at the elbow, but petals of flowing, sheer white muslin spilled out, and at the split in the skirt it was gathered and draped and adorned with wavelets of lace.

"I… I… Kat…"

Katherine's fingers went to the thickly bound laces at her back, tugging them apart, sounding immensely pleased. "Stop stalling and get changed."

Grace let her dressing robe be pulled off by her maids, stepping out of the puddle of her clothes, and the beautiful muslin shift was slipped onto her instead. Her flesh shivered.

"It's so _light_," she breathed when it was laced up, and spun smoothly on the balls of her feet. The petticoat swirled out around her like a cloud, and she began to giggle in disbelief. It was like wearing air that had somehow been spun into thread and crafted into fabric, and Grace revelled in the feeling of weightlessness, the absolute freedom as she moved.

Then she noticed her sister directing another maid, this one carrying a large carved box inlaid with ivory, into the chamber and towards the polished mahogany table set in the centre of the room.

Grace's hands found the curve of her hips. "_Katherine_."

"Just one more- I promise," Katherine smiled almost guiltily. The wooden chest was set down and the maid unsnapped the clasp, opening the heavy wooden lid. Glittering within were two sculpted Venetian half-masks- one bronze-gold, studded with rubies and diamonds and decorated along the top left edge with several red satin roses, the other silver and edged with swan's down, sapphires and flawless pearls- and between the two was a swatch of folded blue velvet, the edge embroidered with gold beading. The maid lifted it out and handed it to the eldest princess, and Katherine offered it to her sister.

"For you, dearest sister."

Grace hesitated for only a moment. She moved forwards and flipped the swatch of velvet in her sister's hands open. A locket with a long fine chain lay on the fabric underneath- flat and circular and gleaming silver, about the size of a large coin- ornamented with a single symbol proudly embossed with threads of gold, emblazoned in blood-red enamel, white mother-of-pearl and chips of emerald.

"The Tudor rose," Grace said quietly. The tip of her index finger traced the floral shape reverently- the symbol of the English royalty since centuries past, red petals encircling white and a gold centre- and she cracked it open. The inside was hollow, with little hooks on the back half to hold in place a lock of hair- and on the inside of the front were the engraved words: _gratia in nomen, gratia in natura_.

"_Grace in name, grace in nature,_" she said aloud, her throat closing up.

Katherine snapped the locket shut and draped the chain around Grace's neck, fastening the little catch carefully. It was long enough so that the cold metal of the pendant hung directly above her heart, easily hidden underneath the fabric of her clothes- their father would be scandalised to see his daughter wearing something so appallingly simple, even if she was his least favourite, and undoubtedly confiscate it.

Grace held it between two fingers and slipped it underneath her shift, and threw her arms around Katherine.

"Thank you. I love it."

Katherine stroked her dark hair, smoothing out the wild silken curls. "No… thank _you_, Grace…" She breathed out sharply. "Alright. Let's get you ready."

* * *

The air and atmosphere of the ballroom tasted like molten gold, honeyed and glowing, thick and almost cloying, infused with the opulent scent of spices and wine and thick perfumes and fragrant candlewax. The sky beyond the tall windows was a rare royal blue, caught somewhere between the confusion between day and dusk and rapidly darkening; the blended sounds of music and voices drifted out of the soaring doors masquerading as high atrium windows, the hidden panels flung open into the night. Grace's long dark hair was curled and braided and swooped with countless pearls, her expression fixed like that of a porcelain doll, skirts swirling around her like a maelstrom as she greeted and laughed and mingled with the guests, committing each of them to memory, etching out the details into her mind, adding to the mental dossiers stored quietly away inside her head. She was in the midst of a pit of vipers, and she hated it; but she was her sister's eyes in this court, and if this is what it took to keep them safe- to personally sift through the smiling façades and separate the allies from the enemies- so be it. Swallowing down just the right amount of wine to soften her temper, Grace coasted about the hall, soaking in the details everyone else seemed to be missing; the tells, the nuances of behaviour, the intonation of a voice, all of it the guide to telling if that lord was flirting or if that baroness was lying or if that councillor was seeking a little extra land from his king. _Knowledge is power-_ or so they had always told her.

Grace kept moving, adrift and her mind roiling behind her vacant smile, silently persuading herself not to drink too much before her performance as her eyes scanned the length of the hall critically. Katherine was safe, surrounded by a corona of admiring gazes- most of them ones belonging to people that Grace trusted, at least in so far of their regard for her sister- so she was afforded the luxury of relaxing somewhat. Her father had not arrived yet.

Grace jumped sharply as a small hand abruptly tapped her shoulder.

"_Tu êtes aussi belle et sauvage comme la mer dans cette robe, __votre Altesse__. Je pense que mon cousin serait pleurait avec fierté s'il pouvait nous voir_."

Grace brightened instantly, turning to face the owner of that lilting French voice. The young woman stood behind her was grinning from behind a flamboyant mask trimmed with peacock feathers and dark green sapphires, her brunette hair styled into an elegant twist, dressed in a vivid shade of turquoise damask. "Chelle," she laughed aloud in delight, and the two girls hugged without a single moment of hesitation, completely ignoring standard court etiquette. Fortunately, most of the nobles in their vicinity were all too intoxicated to notice or care.

Victoire Bonnefoy- known to her close friends and immediate family as Chelle, the only person at court that Grace genuinely liked aside from her sisters, her music tutor and his wife- wore a smile as warm as the eastern sun as she looked over her friend thoroughly, her rich honey eyes approving. "I missed you," Grace said, squeezing Chelle's delicately tanned hands in her own. "_La vie ici est terne sans toi. Mais, dites-moi, comment vas-tu? Comment s'est passé votre temps au Pays de Galles?_"

"Oh, I was bored out of my skull," Chelle pouted, sighing dramatically and linking arms with Grace; they began wandering through the clusters of conversing nobles, gently steering themselves towards one of the wide circular tables, this particular one bearing a sparkling tower of gilded wine goblets, and several large silver platters of daintily arranged hors d'oeuvres. "Wales is wet, cold, miserable, and horribly dull. The only bright spot was Lord Bowen. He was the most wonderful host-" Catching sight of Grace's increasingly amused expression, she swiftly changed subject. "_Mais moins de cela_! I hear that you are to perform tonight, _n'êtes-tu pas_?"

Grace giggled at her friend's evasiveness, touching her fingers to the smooth edge of her mask. "Yes, I am. An advanced concerto duet with Master Edelstein, on the violin."

Chelle blinked in surprise. "The- _violin_? But-"

"My father's request."

"Oh." Chelle was silent for a moment, before quickly recovering and striking up again in enthusiastic French, describing the contents of her last letter from her cousin, who was apparently occupied with business somewhere off the coast. Grace listened attentively, happy to be distracted from her own problems in favour of the infamous and much-regaled exploits of Chelle's beloved relative- a man nine years her senior and so close that he was essentially a surrogate brother, something that Grace had always quietly envied. Tasting yet another of the curious, sweet little addictive truffles from the platter closest to her, Grace's gaze skimmed the hall and suddenly caught sight of Roderich- dressed in an indigo coat with subtle silver embroidery and a cabochon-cut gem the exact shade of his eyes pinned to his cravat, looking refreshingly scholarly and debonair amongst the gaudiness of the other dignitaries- walking directly towards her.

"Master Edelstein," she greeted him brightly as he approached; Chelle echoed her, smiling politely at the Austrian. Roderich bowed formally, and looked to the princess. Grace's heart suddenly started fluttering nervously. "Um… I-is it time already?"

"It is, Your Highness," he said, his lenses flashing as he adjusted the finely wrought frames smoothly with the tips of his fingers. "His Majesty is to make the announcement in just a few minutes, and has requested that you be ready when he addresses the hall."

The princess nodded stiffly, and threw Chelle a helpless smile. "Well, then…"

Chelle leaned forwards and kissed her cheek. "Good luck! I'm sure you'll be simply divine- one of Apollo's muses in the flesh."

Grace laughed uncertainly, her nervousness thawed somewhat by Chelle's blind faith. "Thank you, Chelle. Find Katherine for me, will you?"

Pivoting on her heels, Grace followed her tutor compliantly, drawing level at his side as they carved their way through a cluster of inebriated lords, the ballroom and its lights whipping past a blur of colour and slurred sound; her stomach was suddenly churning, her throat sickening with an acrid taste, threatening to reacquaint her with the vat of wine sloshing around inside her stomach. Grace bit her lip.

Wordlessly, Roderich's hand reached out and gripped Grace's wrist gently, his thumb pressing down on her pulse. "Don't be nervous," he breathed sharply, and let go. The princess looked up at him, light blue irises clear and brilliant from beneath an array of long, dark lashes; Roderich looked straight ahead, confident and unwavering, as if nothing had happened. "You are _my_ student. Unless you have some doubt in my teaching abilities, then you have no reason to be nervous. Would you not agree?"

Grace breathed in, and smirked, the look in her eyes colder and brighter than the arctic. "Absolutely, Master Edelstein."

A minute look of pride nudged through Roderich's impassive expression, a smile that shadowed hers twitching at the corner of his mouth for a split second before they took their places at the podium prepared for them, the small stage draped in a deep scarlet rug and placed in perfect view of the grand hall, the panes of the windows reflecting the candlelight hazily like ink-black mirrors. There was the slam of the butt of a staff against the hard floor, then a strong male voice rang out like the commanding toll of church bells:

"His Majesty, King James of England, Scotland and Ireland!"

The music died and the hall rustled with sudden flurry of movement, the nobility of the British Empire and its allies turning and bowing to the sovereign lord as one mindless mass; King James was stood in front of the ballroom doors, vested in rich red velvet, an azure satin sash strung across his torso, the frill of a white linen collar at his throat, gold detailing at the hems of the dramatic sleeves, fluted at the wrist, slim ebony cane in hand. The king paused, observing the room as imperiously and flatly as an ancient oil painting, the tight ringlets of the ridiculous wig he wore piled high and draping around his shoulders in brunette waves, his expression only softening as it took in the sight of his heir in all her glory; Katherine was dipped respectfully, her head only rising enough to return his gaze warmly.

And then his stare fell upon his second daughter. Graze gazed back unflinchingly, one foot swept behind the other and her knees bent in curtsey, her spine held ramrod straight in a near defiant pose. His eyes narrowed in warning. Her chin tilted slightly, insolently, in reply.

Then he turned to his assembly and smiled blandly. "My lords and ladies! It is my pleasure to welcome you here, to these ancient halls and this great, auspicious celebration, at the cusp of the height of our glorious country's summer! And, moreover, to offer to you a rather rare gift- plucked directly from the branches of England's royal bloodline. My daughter, Princess Grace, and her tutor, Sir Roderich Edelstein of Austria, have designed a musical performance to honour the occasion." He lifted a hand towards Grace, eyes hard as pebbles. "Well, my daughter? _Delight us_."

An appreciative chuckle rippled through the hall and the glittering crowd turned towards the podium expectantly, glass flutes and gold chalices gleaming in hands. Master and student, stood side by side, bowed to their audience in unison, accepting their instruments from the two footmen stood either side of the stage. Grace slid into position and glanced at Roderich out of the corner of her eye as the courtiers slowly fell silent with anticipation.

At his cue- the very faintest of nods- they began.

It was just as they had practiced it. Only, this time, with Roderich playing alongside her and both of them captivating the attention of a hundred or more of the highest ranking lords and dignitaries in the land, Grace abruptly forgot about being tense or nervous. Her bow moved fluidly across the strings, the wings of her sleeves fluttering with each quick stroke, the music flowing faultlessly as she realised just how easy this had somehow become in the long tireless hours spent practicing, practicing, practicing until her skin shredded like paper and her fingers bled. A strange energy effervesced in her veins, sparkling inside her like champagne bubbles, and she found her father's stony face amidst those of the murmuring crowd, glaring into him from behind her mask as the music steeped; the violin sang beneath her fingers, and Grace closed her eyes and began to accelerate, listening to Roderich seamlessly split into a separate section of their duet, keeping pace all the while. The guests began to gasp and murmur as the princess' and her tutor's fingers moved with astounding speed, blindly weaving the intricate melody into the air, the sound layering upon itself like the tumbling of breaking waves- then it began to build, rising, blossoming into its height. As they fell into a perfectly synchronised stride once more, Grace threw a radiant smile in Roderich's direction and saw his eyes glint victoriously in response- they both struck a drawn-out note, creating an echo, and plunged into one last refrain. With a dramatic flourish, Roderich and Grace finished at the exact same moment.

The faint hum of their last note was smothered by the explosion of enthusiastic applause that burst from the courtiers. Grace laughed resplendently, sweeping into a deep curtsey beside her tutor, and looked up.

Her breath snagged in her throat, blood chilling from her crown to the soles of her feet. It was only for a split second, but she saw it, her eyes catching it just in time: flickering beyond the tall windows, a shadow darted in the darkness, something flashing viciously at their waist.

_That was not one of the palace guards._

Grace's expression was frozen as though in ice as she handed her violin back into the gloved hands of the footman, the hum of voices and of the band of musicians that resurrected at her father's order crushing in on her. Dread constricted her chest like chains, her mind racing far ahead of her, a thousand conclusions condensing into a single terrifying thought as her eyes met with her sister's: Katherine was smiling beatifically at her, Chelle by her side with a little coy grin on her face, their glasses raised slightly in a triumphant toast.

_There is only one reason that an armed man would be out there._

Within moments, Grace found herself stepping down from the miniature stage into a sea of praise directed at her and her tutor, who accepted it with his usual cool grace, mercifully diverting attention away from her for a few brief seconds. Exactly as Grace had hoped they would, Katherine and Chelle cut through the crowd effortlessly and were quickly upon her, blind to the panic roaring through her like wildfire.

"You were _magnificent_," Katherine cried the moment she was close enough to be heard, grasping Grace's hand in her own- vaguely, Grace registered the belated sting in her fingers from where the strings had dug into her flesh.

"_C'était merveilleux,_" Chelle exclaimed, glowing with exhilaration and the effects of alcohol. "_Vous devez avoir pratiqué pendant si longtemps_."

Grace managed to stagger out a few breathless words of thanks before tugging on Katherine's hand, shaking with the fear cascading through her. "Listen," she said quietly, desperately hoping that her urgency was veiled by a veneer of exhilaration. "I know that this is the time when you step out into the garden for some air, but could you be absolutely wonderful and give me a few minutes first? It's just, I think I need to catch my breath…"

"Of course, of course," Katherine replied quickly, completely oblivious to Grace's overwhelming relief when she accepted the hasty lie without a second thought. "You, sister, have earned it. Do not worry- I am sure that between us, Master Edelstein, Chelle and I can keep everyone distracted."

Grace forced a smile. "Thank you. I promise- I'll be back soon."

The world outside was quiet and murky compared to that of the party. Watercolour light spilled out of the windows and pooled onto the broad walkway of white stone above the vastness of the garden proper, Grace's shadow slithering at her heels like ink, her steps cracking on the smooth slabs; the silhouettes of the trees and fountains warped into a strange slur in the darkness, bathed in blackness and obscurity like the bottom of a deep lake. The glow of the palace at her back, Grace hurried over to the wide railing and leaned over, staring blindly into the night, palms pressed to the carved rock. She stood perfectly still, blocking out the obnoxious chatter floating out of the doors behind her, listening intently.

Nothing.

Grace felt a little of her trepidation ebb away. Perhaps she had seen nothing. Perhaps she was just paranoid; perhaps there was no danger; perhaps the palace guards truly doing their jobs and the grounds were perfectly secure. The mystery figure could have so easily been a trick of the light- the passing shadow of a reflection in the glass, the flash of the hilt of a blade nothing more than that of a belt buckle or something similar.

It was possible.

Grace sighed, leaning back, and felt a circlet of warm metal brush against her skin beneath her gown. A self-deprecating chuckle hummed through her, raising a hand to graze her fingertips along the chain of the locket, tracing the fine links resting over the curve of her clavicle.

_You're overprotective of me,_ the phantom voice of her sister said.

"Maybe," Grace replied quietly. "Maybe you are right."

A cool breeze played around her as she wandered across the walkway, trailing her fingers along the stone railing and following its curvature down the ensuing steps, sliding out of the warmth of the light and into the cold, clammy shade. A band of clouds smothered the moon out of existence, but galaxies of stars sparkled above in their millions; on the clearer summer nights like these, it could get shockingly cold, the breeze refreshingly frosty after the suffocating heat of the day. Grace shivered slightly, a chill slithering down her spine. She took a second step into the darkness ahead, and another, hearing the wind ruffle the leaves. A little petal brushed by her arm, carried in the air's lilting current.

Another step.

The air was still. The cloud cover suddenly drifted from across the moon in the billow of an invisible stratospheric wind, drawing back like a curtain of smoke to reveal the perfect, incandescent silver disk glowing in the depths of the night, the sky so clear and its light so intense that it cast a ring of iridescence around it.

Its light flooded through the garden, chasing away the shadows- and revealing the grounds to be empty.

Grace relaxed, smiling, and took a step backwards.

_Straight into someone's chest._

Grace shrieked, but the sound was cut off quickly by a wad of cloth being clamped hard over her mouth- and then the acerbic smell of chemical was choking her and she immediately forced herself to stop inhaling. The man was strong, he had trapped her against his torso with arms like steel cord and iron, solid with muscle, but her hands and legs were still free and she lashed out savagely with an elbow to his ribs, inciting a muffled grunt at the back of her skull before there were more of them, strong calloused hands restraining her but her nails found flesh and raked down and there was an explosion of blood underneath her fingertips-

Her chest convulsed with the need for air as she heard a cry of pain and low hissed whispers snarling around her, head thrashing and body twisting like a fish snared in a net as they struggled to contain her- her body juddered, she needed to breathe, but the cloth was still pressed tight over her mouth, but she needed to breathe, prickles of light were exploding across her vision and she kicked out and her arms were yanked back in an immobilising angle and oh god she needed to breathe and her body was seizing up and clenching in on itself and they held her firm and she needed to breathe she needed to breathe she needed to breathe _she needed to breathe_-!

Grace gave a desperate, muffled scream and gasped.

The moment she did she felt her mistake hit her with the force of a wrecking ball. The chemical burned her senses- what little world she had left spun, her mind turned to cotton, her limbs dropped limply.

The last thing she saw before unconsciousness consumed her was the moon, singular and bright and cold in the depthless hollow backdrop of the sky.


	3. Chapter II: Clipped Wings

_**A/N:**_

_**12:04AM 31/05/2014: **I am posting this at midnight, with a headache, having just finished this chapter and with an exam in five days. **Do not be surprised if I edit this at some point**._

_And… once more this chapter is way longer than I intended. I would tell you guys not to keep expecting these kinds of updates, but, hell, at this point it might be the norm._

_I blame the whole 'chapter being over three times the intended length' thing mostly on a snippet of fluffy sweetness I added at the start. Originally I cut it in my editing, but then I watched_ HetaOni_ for the first time and- yeah, I'm not ashamed to admit that I cried. As in, actual tears and sobbing and undignified sniffling. THIS HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE EVER. So, you know, then I just had to add it in just to make myself feel better. Damn BROTP USUK holding my emotions ransom…_

_Anyway, once more, a lot of this instalment is from OC perspective, but **next chapter is going to be Arthur-centric**! So, yay. I am not looking forwards to trying to capture and establish his character since he is wonderfully yet horribly complex and far more than the one-dimensional tsundere some people insist upon portraying him as so yeah I'm scared._

_Oh, as a side note: naming conventions of the English gentry are a little odd, so let me just cover it quickly here. In a nutshell, high-ranking titled nobility have a family name, like a surname, but they also have a 'title'- usually the name of the area they preside over, or something, plus their rank (Earl, Lord, Baron, Duke, Marquis, et cetera)- that was shortened and used somewhat like a surname. So, you can have a guy with the last name Waters, but as the Duke of Richmond, his peers at court would most likely call him Richmond._

_Alright. On with the show…_

* * *

Chapter II  
_Clipped Wings_

_The man was beautiful. His smile was warm, his hair waves of sunshine, his eyes azure and soft and beckoning above a full mouth, angular jaw, narrow nose, high cheekbones. He knelt, but elegantly, the tails of his long blue coat blossoming around him and cascading to the earth, glinting with fine gold braid, and the smell of an exotic perfume clung to him in an aura of summer-sweet brightness. He offered upon the tips of his fingers a plate arranged with the best-looking dish the boy's young eyes had ever seen- slices of pale potatoes sprinkled with herbs, tender curls of meat drizzled in a fine port sauce, a springy nest of leaves complimenting its side, each delicately designed to seduce every single sense._

_The boy looked up at him. The man was laughing, a pleasant deep throaty chuckle._

_He wondered, considering this strange foreign apparition before him with interest. The boy found himself vaguely tempted by the beauty and the fragrance and the elegance of this person, this man who was not a man._

_He wondered._

_And then he happened to glance behind the man's shoulder._

_A familiar cap of mussed golden hair was buried into white silk sleeves in quiet despair, arms folded across knees and wrapped around himself like a shield, a shroud of mute despair swirling about him like a storm. He said nothing, this other, and did nothing to stop what was happening, resigned and desolate._

_The spell cast by the beautiful blue-eyed man wavered as the boy took in the sight and remembered- remembered mornings spent running through the long dew-sprinkled grass in the dawn light, when this other would travel such long distances just to see him; the cool patience and subtle kindness he had always shown, and the glow of surprised happiness the boy had seen light his face that first time when he hadn't run away; the doubtless safety he had come to associate with the other's presence, like a cloak of protection around him, warm and steady as the sun._

_He looked at the 'other', vulnerable and alone, silent in his misery._

_Beads of hot salt budded at the corners of the boy's eyes, sadness sweeping over him._

_Some part of him understood what he was doing, as he abruptly toddled past the angelic man and the gift he offered- just as some part of him understood that there had never been any competition between who he would choose to begin with._

_His little hand tugged at the other's sleeve. "Hey," the boy said softly._

_His forehead lifted from his arms in surprise. This man who was not a man was beautiful too, the boy realised, but in a different way to his blue-eyed cousin; he was ever so slightly younger, sculpted and handsome like a mythological warrior, with eyes a shade of impossibly vivid green the boy had never seen before, their sharp shape softened by the layers of fine dark lashes fanned around them. Those lashes were wet with tears, droplets clinging to them, shining like constellations._

"_Are you… okay?" He ventured anxiously. The beautiful man was muttering something sourly, but neither was listening. "Please don't be sad. I don't want you to be sad."_

_The man with wild gold-blonde hair and faerie green eyes forced a smile, reaching out and gently swiping away the unshed tears from the corners of the boy's eyes. "I'm not sad," he lied, patting the boy's head, ruffling the fair locks. "It's alright- really. You can go with him if that's… what you really want."_

_The boy reached up from where his hand was resting on the green-eyed man's elbow to clutch at his wrist instead, keeping the large gentle hand pressed to his scalp. "Well… what if I don't want to?"_

_The green eyes were wide, disbelieving, hopeful. "W-well then… that would be perfectly alright too."_

_The boy grinned, holding his arms up and out demandingly, giggling. The green-eyed man laughed and unfolded himself, suddenly scooping the boy up and holding him close. The boy buried himself into his chest, feeling the warm strong beat of the man's heart underneath the clothes and flesh and bone as closely as his own; he smelled of deep forests and wildflowers, earthy wood smoke and the fresh clear tang of rain, of salt air and tea. The smell was strangely appetizing to him- it was honest, and comforting, and felt of the essence of home._

"_You're my big brother now, right?"_

"_That's right," a voice hummed into his hair. "And you're my little brother… so I promise to take good care of you and love you forever, no matter what happens… okay?"_

_The boy squirmed in approval. "Okay! Then I'll promise too! I promise to love you forever and ever and ever and always make you smile!"_

_Soft laughter rang out around him, running through the arms holding him safe and warm. He decided that he liked that sound. "I am absolutely certain that you will, Amer-"_

Alfred opened his eyes.

The dawn was early, cold, the frigid light trickling into the room in stiff bleached shafts, the air brittle and clear, as though vitrified by the sunrise. Alfred buried his face in the sheets and shut his eyes against the waking world; his body curled up tighter, burrowing deeper into the hollow warmth of the mattress and the blankets and pulling the covers around his head like a shroud, locking out the light and sinking back into the soothing gloom. But the hazy veil of sleep was already lifting, peeling away from the surface of his mind, the dream slipping through his grasp like paper breaking apart in water, the fragments drifting beyond his reach. All that he could remember of it now was that it had felt like a long lost memory, slow moving and sublimely happy- and that whatever it had been about, he wanted it back.

A gull shrieked from outside his window. Alfred ground his jaw, groaning irritably, and reluctantly reopened his eyes, throwing the covers back with a sigh.

Shadows of the skeleton of rafters jutting below a high stone ceiling stared back down at him. The room was small and dim and sparse, grimly utilitarian and devoid of the organised clutter and sleek grandeur that Alfred liked to collect around himself. The walls and floor were grey stone. The fixtures were unvarnished, each surface almost entirely bare; the narrow desk bore a squat stack of books, their spines cracked and the titles wearing away from the faded leather covers, and stacks of fresh paper, pots of ink, simple dip pens, a tarnished brass candelabrum on the ledge. There was a single window facing southwards, iron and thick panes of heavily rippled, poorly fired glass. Facing it from the opposite wall was a slab of oak, the door fitted closely to its frame on sturdy steel hinges- and bolted from the other side, of course.

Alfred supposed that the holding cell of a suspected traitor could have been infinitely worse.

He got up- ignoring the perpetual chill he had become accustomed to, confined here in one of the uppermost rooms- and crossed the length of the cell, rigid muscles flexing and creaking like frosted rope as his arms stretched out above his head, arching his spine backwards until the tendons cording his stomach pulled pleasurably taut. As he passed, his reflection flickered in the stippled surface of a small mirror, nailed at a maddeningly lopsided angle to the otherwise empty wall, and Alfred paused briefly, reaching out, rubbing a little of the stubborn coating of dust away with his fingertips.

Kingfisher blue eyes gazed back out. The colour was bright and strong and gloriously striking, even shimmering in the muddy glass.

Alfred smiled slightly.

The screams of sea-birds permeated the room as Alfred flipped the catch on the window and threw it open on its hinges. A breeze edged with a bite of steel and the cutting, salt-infused fragrance of sea spray and decomposing seaweed swept up to steal his breath and ruffle his hair, the white-glazed silhouettes of gulls circling the crags of the far-flung fortress perched upon the island of rock, rooted in its natural foundations, clacking cries of gulls shattering whatever semblance of peace had dawned with daybreak. Alfred raked his fingers through his hair ineffectually, tightening his grip painfully at the roots of the gilded strands and leaning his elbows against the wide ledge. The ocean billowed far below, breaking violently at the base of a sickeningly sheer drop directly underneath his window, waves smashing against the rocks; the seething foam it whipped up was like shredded lace against the dark water, dispersing out into the immense shifting surface of the open sea distending far beyond the hem of the horizon. The sun was a blinding stain of light veering off to his left, casting its rays in blazing tongues of ochre-tinted white across the waves.

To him, to his entire family, the sea represented many things: allegiance to the crown, the danger of the unknown, of that that lay beyond the realm of known, the thrill of voyage and risk of enterprises, the pride that they took in their legacy and their inherent reputation.

But above all else was the purest, most unadulterated sense of freedom.

To be locked away above it- to hear the ocean crashing so close and yet be powerless to reach it, he who wanted to carve out his own legacy and lay claim to that unique freedom more than any of his brothers- was barely short of physical torture.

The taste of iron was on his tongue as Alfred dropped to the floor in a single fluid motion, his weight supported expertly on his palms and the tips of his toes, nose mere millimetres away from the floor, his breath sending specks of grit skittering across the pocked surface. Drawing an icy breath that burned in his throat, he began a series of swift, tight push-ups against the gritty stone. _One, two, three, four_. His arms tensed, released, tendons fluttering beneath the thin worn cotton shirt, flexing and rippling like waves. _Seven, eight, nine_. Pain flashed through his body warningly, but he ignored it, pushing it away, suppressing it, swallowing it down. _Twelve, thirteen, fourteen. _He was already slimmer, lighter, leaner from his captivity, his muscles wasting away from disuse. _Sixteen, seventeen. _But he refused to be weak. _Twenty. _He refused to let any part of himself fade. _Twenty three, twenty four. _He would not submit to the scheming bastards who put him in here. _Twenty five. _He _couldn't._

_Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty ni-_

Alfred gasped sharply as a shot of white-hot pain ripped through his left side. His forehead smacked against the stone flags and he reached to grasp at his ribs, muscles suddenly dissolving into water, vision blurring, hissing from behind gritted teeth in frustration and agony.

_No,_ he snarled to himself, ragged nails digging deep mauve crescents into his palm, holding himself up on his forearm, the hard floor scraping against his skin. _Stay strong, Alfred. You won't die here. _He_ won't let you die here. _You _won't let you die here. You're way too stubborn for that. So don't give in. Not yet… just a little bit longer… just a little bit longer…_

Alfred bit his lip, exhaustion and the slow leech of malnourishment weighing on his back like cinder blocks.

_Now get up. Come on. _Get up_._

Alfred lifted himself up once more on shaking arms, and with a strangled sob at the way his muscles pulled in protest, began once more, hardening himself into his resolution determinedly.

_One…_

* * *

When she came to, her mind was saturated in liquid crushing blackness and dense chemical-induced fog, her every thought moving excruciatingly slowly. Disorientated and lightheaded and almost feverish, she had barely begun clawing for answers before they drifted within her grasp, unravelling like a map underneath her touch, each detail astonishingly pin-sharp- the rest of her head was a mess, but she knew immediately what had happened to her: she remembered the masquerade, her performance with Roderich, the shadow beyond the window, the midnight-cloaked garden, the attack, the plunge into unconsciousness, each flickering past her mind's eye. She realised, gradually, as her thoughts swirling together and clearing like the sky after a storm, that her head was waking faster than the rest of her body; and for an infinite length of time, she seemed to drift within herself, feeling the rivulets of consciousness slowly drip and seep throughout her limbs, her senses steadily returning and reconstructing the world around her.

The first thing she noticed was the way the column of her nose still stung from whatever chemical they had used on her, her breath whooshing in a reassuringly stable rhythm through her chest. But through that she could smell wood, dampness, tar, something else pungent and deeply organic that she couldn't quite place but that she felt she almost knew; slow straining creaks created a shell of sound around her- and muted in the background was movement, footsteps, voices perhaps, mingled with the miasma of life beyond whatever room- assuming that it was a room, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary- she had been bought to. Once her body stopped feeling as though it was floating, she realised that she was lying on her right side, her flesh sparking back into feeling and registering plain cotton sheets cushioning her as she shifted tentatively. She was still wearing her exquisitely light gown from the masquerade. Her mask had been removed. Her hands were bound at the base of her spine.

Grace flexed her fingers experimentally, feeling the rope chafe in response, and was confused to find that the first three fingers of her right hand felt oddly stiff, coated in a crust of something sticky- _oh, it's blood,_ Grace realised with startling calmness, recalling the stifled yelp of pain and the spatter of heat beneath her nails from when she had fought back. Rapidly forming an idea, she rubbed her fingers together probingly. The blood was clotted, tacky, the thinnest layer flaking like rust. _Dried_. So it must have been a few hours at least- perhaps longer.

Finally, Grace opened her eyes.

The blast of light made her want to vomit, but she blinked obstinately against it, tongue pressed to the roof of her mouth. Once her pupils had adjusted, she saw that she was right- it was a room, and a small one at that, with a low ceiling and a tight efficient floor space, seemingly constructed entirely out of thick beams and planks of durable dark wood. Pushing herself up slightly on her side and leaning forward, Grace found that she was lying in a wide bunk, elevated no more than two feet off the floor, her back to the wall it was built against. There was a door to her left- or rather, towards her feet- with a slat cut into it at the eye-line of the average man, the window barred with two short rods of iron, the metal cover slid back in its frame to admit the ashen rays of the morning sun inside. The light streaming through was scarce, but incredibly bright, enough to illuminate the room and leave only a few webs of shade in each corner. With some awkward struggling and undignified squirming, Grace managed to twist and tilt herself up into a sitting position at the centre of an icy cloud of her skirts.

And then she realised that the room was swaying.

Grace screwed her eyes tightly shut and reopened them, blinking rapidly, certain that she must still be a little faint, that it was only the blood rushing to her head creating the illusion- but no: an empty oil lantern swung rhythmically from a ceiling beam, squeaking in its hinges, its panelled refracted shadow stretching and constricting along the walls in an angular web with each sway. The room was moving- _definitely_ moving- rocking back and forth, gently, as if buoyed up on-

_Wait._

That smell- that odd, spoiling smell, rich and putrid and slightly salty. She remembered now: a few summers ago, she and her sister had accompanied their father to inspect the docks and survey the newest addition to the royal fleet, and all the while she had been aware of the foreign reek of fish in the air, tangled with the scent of low tide and stagnant water.

Suddenly the pieces were slotting into place- the creaking room of wood, the strum of footsteps and almost inaudible voices thundering above her head, the subtle swelling inverse curve of the wall to her right that she was only just beginning to notice- it all made sense.

A ship. She was on a ship.

Grace felt her throat sicken. _Don't panic. No panicking, Grace. You're not allowed to panic. _She breathed in deeply, letting her head drop forwards, skull aching and vision spinning as though broiling water was sloshing around within her brain, blistering and cooking the soft tissue, deadening her thoughts. She whimpered quietly in frustration, cursing her own impulsiveness. It had been so easy to be reckless and thoughtlessly brave when Katherine was in danger- now, alone, defenceless instead of the defender, a large part of her was honestly frightened. It was not an emotion she was accustomed to- then again, she wasn't exactly accustomed to being _kidnapped_ either.

Well, at the very least, she wouldn't sit here like some helpless damsel. Grace set her mouth and rotated her shoulders firmly, testing her bindings. She groaned when she felt exactly where and how the ropes had been positioned- around her wrists, then above and below the joints of her elbows, with rigid knots to ensure she had little to no space to twist loose. The princess contorted her spine to look at the rope- it was thick and study, yet supple, and she made an educated guess that it would take several strikes of a decently sharpened blade to cut it. Grace bit her lip and glanced around the room. There was nothing, _nothing_- the lantern might have provided a flame for her to scorch the dry fibres apart, thread by thread until it snapped, but it was unlit, and she could see nothing that might generate a spark- besides, she had no way of reaching it, with her hands tied as they were. Thinking more radically, she supposed she could try kicking the door down- heaven knew, she might even succeed, if she concentrated each blow effectively and remember all of her governess' covert training- but someone, one of her captors would undoubtedly hear it, and even if by some miracle they didn't, she still was confronted with the problem that she had nowhere to go. The room was rocking- it was safe to assume that they were out at sea, and for as long as she could remember her father had forbidden her from so much as dipping her fingertips into any large body of water, much less permit her to learn how to swim. Even if her hands were free, even if they were still close enough to shore, she would probably drown within a minute of her escape.

Well, then. She was trapped.

Grace bit her lip, her eyes welling up. _Damn it to hell, Grace, you're panicking!_

She almost jumped out of her skin at the resounding bang of a door being flung open close by- very close, just beyond one of the walls- followed by a thunder of footsteps down a set of stairs. Her mind was suddenly whirring like silver clockwork. Evidently, in this situation physical force would get her precisely nowhere. Eight years of thorough instruction would be of no use here. But it was far from her sole weapon; Roderich Edelstein was far more than a mere music tutor, as shrewd and careful in his teaching of the princess as her Hungarian governess had been, and having done so for seven years longer.

_Very well. Diplomacy it is, then._

Resolute, Grace slid off the bunk and onto the chilled floor, landing hard on her knees, cushioned somewhat by the silken foam of her underskirts. She crawled to her feet carefully, battling with the sway of the room and the unsteadiness of her own legs and stumbling across the skewed slant of the floorboards only to quickly lose her usually flawless balance, skittering and slamming on her side against the wall. Her shoulder throbbed in response. She muttered under her breath exasperatedly, bracing against the tilting of the room, somehow succeeding in making it over to the door.

The smoothed lower edge of the slat-window proved to be just about level with the bridge of her nose. Grace straightened her ankles and rose up on the balls of her toes, chest pressed to the cold polish of the door, the light shining into her blue eyes as she peered out.

She could see only a constricted slice of what was beyond, but it was enough. There was a narrow passageway outside, and another room directly opposite the one she was locked within, this one with its door propped wide open. A broad rugged-looking figure dressed in a white shirt and salt-stained breeches was traipsing about inside, shuttling back and forth in front of the open doorway, hauling clinking crates and canvas sacks and rattling barrels, scribbling notes on a growing list and humming a slightly off-key tune.

Grace bit her lip, a fiendish idea creeping in at the peripheries of her mind. She waited until she saw the man duck under a low shelf to reach a stray bottle beneath it in the dust, then called out clearly.

"_Parley_."

As predicted, the man jumped and smacked his head painfully off the heavy ledge, provoking several loud expletives to explode from his mouth. Grace suppressed a snicker, pleased that she had at least paid one of her captors back in kind, even if it was a rather petty trick.

The man straightened up and turned, a hand clutching the back of his head, swiping a few long stray strands from his eyes. Grace made a point of glaring into him with as much cool authority as she and her birthright could muster, and was pleased to see him blanch in response.

"E-eh?"

"I said, _parley_," Grace repeated stonily, arching a dark brow. "I invoke the right of parley." The man continued to look dumbfounded. Grace sighed wearily. _Oh, lord._

"As a captive, I request the right to an informal conference with your leader under temporary conditions of truce. I believe my title should at least warrant this right, under standard international military protocol and etiquette-"

Catching sight of his increasingly blank and uncomprehending expression, she bit back a snort of disbelief, and attempted to simplify her request. "I wish to speak with your captain. Tell him that I have invoked the right of parley. Will you do that?"

The man blinked, then blushed deeply, ducking his head. "A-aye," he mumbled, and darted away- presumably up the staircase from which he had descended. Grace released a breath, resting her forehead against the wall briefly. At least that had been relatively painless.

The princess managed to weave her way back to the low bunk, sitting down and arranging herself in as dignified a position as physically possible, calves angled to her left with one ankle crossed neatly behind the other, her back held straight in defiance of the dull ache that was beginning to spread through her shoulders. Her fingers flexed and clenched, her heart strumming nervously inside her. Grace was well practiced in the nuances of persuasion and unscrupulous bargaining, fortunately, but this time would be like navigating a minefield. But she could do this. Not that she had a choice. It would be no more difficult than it was at court. All she had to do was pay attention. Pay attention, and deduce who this captain was and what he wanted. And then play to it for all she was worth.

Grace tapped her foot, the anticipation maddening. It was like waiting for an opponent to make their move in a game of chess.

She was becoming extremely tempted to start pacing to work off the nervous energy that was building in her veins when she heard them approaching, the echo of their strides reverberating through the floorboards. Her heart lurched sickeningly.

There was the metallic clank and churning click of a key in the lock, and the door swung open.

The man who strode in was tall, sinewy, slim and strong as an eel and richly outfitted. Vibrant strands of ginger-red hair framed his face, the vivid shade flattered by a pale complexion and a pair of wickedly clover-green eyes that sparked with humour. He wore a frock coat of deep red, accompanied by dozens of assorted pieces of jewellery and a tricorn hat spilling with white ostrich feather, ornamented with a single crimson silk rose. Grace soaked in the details, swiftly processing the flamboyance and deconstructing it, immediately confused by what she found: the coat and hat were actually rather tasteful, in a simple, effortlessly bold way, but the rest of the captain's garb was strangely gauche. The vest he wore beneath his coat was slightly torn up, but a beautiful cream satin with an elaborate pattern that Grace immediately recognised as both extremely expensive and currently very fashionable in the French court- but then, the rings he was wearing looked ageing and Spanish-wrought- and some of those necklaces you might find selling for small fortunes in Italy- and the engravings on the dented guard of his sabre looked vaguely _Portuguese_. It was bizarre. Here was a pirate- and Grace knew that he was a pirate, if the lavish jewellery and the ship and the kidnapping of a princess were any indication- who was obviously skilled, conceited and plenty rich enough to live as he pleased with his plunder, yet for some reason chose to wear the tattered relics stolen from wherever he could find them.

What on earth was going on?

Grace twitched slightly as the door was closed by a second man. He was slightly shorter, dressed more modestly in black leather boots laced to the knee, dark breeches and a white silk shirt left half-open. He leaned his back against the door calmly, like a prison guard, and Grace turned her attention back to the captain.

Stood directly in front of her, he grinned down at her impassive form, palm rested lazily on the hilt of his blade, glittering and blasé. "You requested a parley, Your Highness?"

His voice had a soft purring cadence to it- Irish, perhaps, Grace would hazard an educated guess, but certainly a native English speaker at the least. The princess was more confused than ever, but hid it below an expression carefully schooled into indifference. "I did."

The captain began speaking again and Grace seized the opportunity to let her mind run. Something was amiss here. It was more than just the clothes, she was quickly beginning to realise. The way he talked, the way he stood, the way he moved- she couldn't put her finger directly on what was so very _off_ about him, but she felt it. Perhaps it was an effect of spending her entire life around those who were in positions of power, but she felt that they carried a certain aura about them, whether they were born into nobility or otherwise- something derived from their bloodline, or from years of staunch education, or learned through raw experience, or any combination of the three. This man held a loose grasp on it, and she could see of it hints in his speech and the way he carried himself, but overall it was more like he was merely dressing the part, playing at being captain rather than-

Her thoughts came to a crashing halt.

The 'captain' was still talking. Grace skimmed her gaze over him. If what she was thinking was correct- as insane as it sounded, even to herself- there was only one logical explanation for this man being the fake she suspected that he was. If she was right- _if_- this all had to have been arranged by the captain himself. And there was only one reason that leapt to mind as to why he would do that- as a masquerade, to hide his true identity, and therefore that of her captor.

If she was right- and, again, _if_, her mind hastily reminded her- then it meant two very important things. Firstly, that they did not intend to harm her (ransoming her, in that case, was their most likely purpose; there seemed to be little point in hiding your identity from someone that you already planned to permanently silence, one way or the other). And secondly, that the only reason they had created this false captain was because there was a chance she could have potentially recognised him in the first place.

Which was a _very_ interesting thought.

Grace let her mind run with the theory, ignoring the voice inside her head that was desperately protesting. If this man really was an impostor, then the true captain must have an overwhelming amount of trust in him as a proxy- which was so pathetically uncommon for most men she had encountered that it shortened the list of possible candidates considerably. Grace gnawed upon the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. Even so- it was a strange and risky move for someone who was intelligent enough to both devise a way to kidnap a princess from the inner walls of the royal palace and use a deceptively simple trick such as this to confuse an adversary.

Maybe it was something of a leap of logic- _not that it stopped you thirty seconds ago_, her own brain snidely added- but would it be so unreasonable to think that a person as shrewd as that might decide to sit in on the conversation- inconspicuously, to prompt their imitation if needed and hear the information gleaned first hand?

Grace found herself glancing, almost reflexively, over at the man to her left- the only other person in the room. He had propped himself against the door, one knee bent so that his boot was pressed to the frame, arms crossed over his chest, lean and toned and carelessly elegant. A length of red silk was tied around the wild spun-gold tresses, protecting them from sea air and keeping his fringe somewhat out of his eyes. Grace visually combed over his appearance, and immediately noted that unlike his 'captain', he only wore a single piece of jewellery: a ring, glinting on the third finger of his right hand. Her eyes honed in on it curiously, picking out a scattered row of green gems, set in the delicate clutch of fine, intricate twists of gold- a design that she realised with an unexpected jolt of excitement that she _knew_- not by sight, but she had heard it described in sumptuous detail on more than one occasion, and by more than one person- it was famous throughout England, as was its owner. And Grace above all others knew to pay attention to detail.

That ring was a rare heirloom, and she knew precisely who it belonged to.

Her toes curled, heart singing, utterly intoxicated by victory.

"So, princess," the ginger-haired man's voice returned to her as though she had broken the surface of water, sound rushing back to her at its normal pace, "you called me to parley. What is it that you would like to discuss?"

"With you?" Grace asked, her tone faux-innocent. The rational part of her mind was still screaming internally that this was insane, that it was suicide, that she was operating on nothing but guesswork and baseless assumptions; all true, of course, but it wasn't as if she had anything else to work with. "Why, nothing, sir. After all, I believe I requested to speak to the captain of this vessel."

The 'captain' looked perplexed, and slightly amused. "… And?"

"And I know that you are not the captain," Grace said simply, head held high as she looked at him steadily, feeling as though she was balanced at the edge of a precipice. This was possibly the most stupid thing she had ever done, but she could think of absolutely nothing else. Her eyes flicked over and fixed upon the man at the door, glaring from beneath the screen of her lashes.

"_He_, however, is."

She drew a breath, steeling herself.

"Captain Arthur Kirkland, Earl of Hartsbury, known to enemies and admirers alike as Britannia's Lion. And a supposed loyal subject of my father, King James of England, Scotland and Ireland."

For a moment, the room was still.

Then the redhead began to chuckle shakily.

"Christ, princess. Where in God's name did you conjure up a fanciful idea like that? I tell you, I am the-"

"Oh, give it up, Seamus."

The other man spoke for the first time. Grace watched him lift his head, and saw with an involuntary stutter of her heart that the rumours she had heard at court were true: the eldest of the Kirkland line was far more than _just_ handsome- he was stunningly beautiful, with a straight nose, sharply-cut jaw, piercing green eyes and a voice like satin. A wry smile was currently playing at his mouth.

"We are caught. Besides- you are a terrible actor." The blonde man stood up straight and sighed, his gaze falling on the princess. Grace gazed back, silently astounded by how intense the colour of his irises were. "Perhaps, in light of this revelation, we should continue in my chambers."

Grace gave a wordless nod of assent. Before she had time to even blink, the man she now knew to be the captain gestured with a swift flick of his head to his imitation, and both men left as quickly as they had come, the door rattling shut behind them.

The moment they were gone, Grace let her shoulders drop. Her head hurt. Suddenly, she was struck with the overwhelming desire to curl up in on herself and cry.

By the time they came for her- only a handful of minutes later, perhaps less- she had collected herself once more into a perfect facsimile of apathy and left docilely with the pair of crewmen sent to escort her. Grace found herself ironically grateful for their stern grip on her upper arms as they steered her down the narrow passageways; at least this way, the risk of her falling flat on her face due to the ship's movement was significantly lower.

They reached a darkly-stained, polished door and nudged her inside, locking her in the moment she had stepped over the threshold. Grace scanned the room.

She was alone, as far as she could tell. The panels of a broad leaded glass window faced the wall on her right, glittering in the sunshine and the world outside blurred beyond view, bordered by a wide low window seat running its length, padded in silver-grey damask cushioning. Set several feet before it was a vast desk of beautifully carved mahogany, stacked with papers weighted with slabs of raw marbled rock that looked as though they had been scavenged straight from the beach, a tall-backed chair upholstered in fine dark leather tucked behind it. There was a smaller ebony desk a few strides away, supplied with writing tools, paper and a matching seat, presumably for a scribe. A round table scattered with unfurled maps and navigational equipment crouched in the corner to her right, and in the pool of free space was a handsome chaise lounge and two small couches, each of them made of rosewood and sage satin. Directly opposite her was another door.

Grace crossed the room and took a seat on the chaise, staring absently down at her skirts as she settled in to wait. Diamonds sparkled back up at her amongst the swathes of creased silk, strands of miniature pearls embroidered into looping swirls along the dark azure dentelle. _Katherine really does have good taste,_ she thought to herself distantly.

To his credit, the captain did not keep her waiting long.

He arrived in only a few minutes, now changed. He wore the same blood-red coat that his fake had appropriated, left unbuttoned so that it fluttered dramatically in his wake, the silk shirt underneath left open at the collar, its cuffs falling half an inch or so past that of his jacket, brushing the knuckles of his taut black leather gloves. He had removed his bandanna, and a sword belt was draped around his waist instead; the hilt of the blade gleamed, the elegant loops of silver encircling the grip inlaid with band of sage-green diopsides, the leather sheath worked heavily with gold. Strands of blonde hair fell across smouldering eyes, and Grace immediately noticed that he moved with an intrinsic confidence that his imitation had lacked.

Captain Arthur Kirkland smiled, faintly, the minute gesture sending a tongue of ice sliding down her spine. "Princess Grace- an honour. I must say, you exceed your reputation in every respect."

Grace's expression didn't shift aside from the arching of a single dark eyebrow, silently conveying an immeasurable level of sarcasm.

"You flatter me, Captain. I wasn't aware that I had a reputation to exceed."

He chuckled lowly, and was about to say something else when he suddenly stopped, the amusement fading from his eyes. "You're still bound."

Grace gave him a pointed, slightly uncertain look. "Yes."

Kirkland sighed. "My apologies, Your Highness," he said, reaching for the dagger resting on his desk and unsheathing it swiftly. Grace felt a muscle flicker in her jaw, but Kirkland didn't give her much time to feel apprehensive- within moments, he was stood behind her, calmly slitting the ropes apart with a few swift flashes of the knife, and Grace had to bite her tongue in order to stop herself from crying aloud in relief as her arms were freed. Kirkland stepped away, tossing the frayed web of rope aside into a distant corner casually. Grace resisted the urge to rub her flesh where her bindings had chafed, settling instead for smoothing her sleeves down and placing her hands in her lap demurely.

Kirkland watched her with cool interest, inscrutable. Grace gazed back evenly.

"Tea?"

The princess tried not to show any shock at the bizarre pleasantry. "Why not?" _Don't you dare try and knock me off balance with your non-sequitur courtesy, Kirkland._

He circled around to a bureau pressed against the far wall behind them, atop which rested a rather elegant silver tea service and compact burner, with a bright copper kettle suspended above it. Grace grudgingly admired the invention for a second before turning back around, absentmindedly rubbing the worst of the blood off her fingers, brushing the flakes from the folds of her dress.

"This is a rather unique blend," Kirkland informed her conversationally, his smooth voice floating, disembodied, behind her, making the back of her neck prickle uncomfortably. "Quite different from that imported on a bulk scale from Asia. It was a gift from a trade contact in the far East- quite rare. I've never tasted anything like it since." Grace heard a harsh scraping flick, then the whooshing of an igniting flame. In a few swift strides Kirkland returned to her line of sight, leaning against the edge of his immense desk, hands braced either side of him casually, powerful and languorous, like the feline that served as his moniker.

The atmosphere was tense and stilted, distrust writhing like a bed of snakes under the pretention of civility. Grace had to imagine that this was what it must feel like between two adversaries when they both have weapons pointed at the other's head- a flawless stalemate, where the breadth of a single hair is the distance away from death, silently daring the other to make the first move, skin crawling in the tension.

"If I may, Your Highness, I would like to propose something," Kirkland spoke up suddenly. His eyes were searing, verdant emerald lashed with dark brassy gold a dozen shades darker than his hair. "A game."

Grace's replying tone dripped with derision. "Do I look like a child to you, Captain Kirkland?"

He smiled again, once more the movement little more than a lazy curl of his lips, yet still succeeding in sending another fizzle of cold energy coasting down the hollow of Grace's back. "Not in the least, Your Highness." Kirkland observed her shrewdly for a moment, before exhaling sharply. "Very well. Don't think of it as a game, then, but rather a- a mutually beneficial temporary arrangement. A trade, if you like."

Grace heard a deep gurgling bubbling from behind her and swivelled around in her seat, startled. Kirkland, unfazed, passed by her once again to take the kettle off the heat, smothering the flame and sloshing hot tea into the tall silver pot.

A few moments later, Kirkland carefully handed her a cup, a beautiful bone china teacup and saucer swirled with patterns in deep glossy red and wisps of gold, and she accepted it with the hollow shell of refinement that her teaching had ingrained upon her. The tea billowed a plume of delicious heat into her face, warming her chilled skin. "A trade," Grace repeated, steam rising in slow seeping coils from the surface of the drink in her hands.

"Yes." Kirkland had set his own tea on his desk to cool. "A trade. One honest answer in exchange for another. After all, there are plenty of things we wish to know from each other. We ask alternating questions, under guarantee of complete sincerity. No lies. By omission or otherwise."

"And you promise not to lie." Grace said flatly.

A smirk quirked at Kirkland's mouth response. "Your Highness, I have as much reason to lie as you do."

_Oh, sneaky. Well played, Kirkland._ Grace's grip tightened almost imperceptibly on the saucer and the dainty handle of her teacup, the fine china clinking together prettily.

"Alright. Then, in that case, I will start with the obvious. Last night, my sister, Princess Katherine, was your true target. _Why_?"

Grace could almost taste the venom she had injected into that single syllable on her tongue. She was seething with anger, and Kirkland heard it, because he took a long time to answer.

"Please," he finally said softly. "Ask me something else."

"_You said_-"

"Your Highness." Kirkland's voice was chillingly solemn- and the look in his eyes, almost vacant but gleaming with an undercurrent of something very much like pleading, caught Grace off guard, the words dying in her throat. "_Please_. Ask me something else. _Anything_ else. I swear I will answer your question, and honestly, just- not yet. First ask me what you really want to know. What are you _truly_ asking me?"

Grace hesitated, her gaze cutting into him.

"Are you an enemy or traitor to the crown and country of England?"

His expression barely flickered but his eyes burst to life, the emptiness replaced by something dark, sincere and intense. "_Never._"

He said the word with such cold, unyielding conviction that Grace could almost feel it pierce her.

Either he was the world's greatest actor, or he was telling truth.

Grace sighed. "Your turn, Captain Kirkland," She said lightly, lifting her teacup to her lips and taking a tentative sip. Flavour and heat exploded across the flat of her tongue, earthy richness and tart citrus, blended with a hint of orange blossom and something warm and sweet and exotic, like vanilla. _Oh wow._

Kirkland crossed his arms over his chest, the sharp glint of his irises reminiscent of that of a raven. "How did you identify me?" He asked.

Grace felt a simmer of pride bubble up in her chest, her lips turning up.

"Small details," she told him nonchalantly, gazing over the rim of her teacup.

Kirkland hitched a thick eyebrow, prompting her to elaborate. Grace opted to indulge him.

"Once I had worked out that the 'captain' I was dealing with was a fake- a combination of attitude and attire, if you are interested in specifics- it wasn't too difficult. Although, in all honesty, much of it was educated guesswork. In short, I bluffed." Grace glanced at his right hand, resting lazily beside him on the edge of his desk. "All I really had to indicate your identity, even after I had deduced who you were, was your ring."

"My ring?" Kirkland looked briefly confused, before looking down and taking it off. "Is this the one you're referring to?"

Grace examined it as he held it out, taking a moment to study it. The ring was unusual, unique to its owner, and painstakingly crafted: the head of a lion, ornately fashioned from gold, roared out at her, the halo of its mane morphing into the filigree band of the ring proper, its eyes chips of a leaf-green gem that glinted fiercely as though alive. A small ruby was held in its open mouth, between its teeth.

Grace nodded. "That's right. Your ring is as famous as you are. In fact, I believe that's from where you received your nickname- the lion is the central figure on your family's coat of arms, correct?"

"Ah- yes, but-" Kirkland slipped the ring back on, his expression increasingly perplexed. "I was certain that I turned it around before I entered the room."

"Oh, you did. I didn't see the lion."

"You mean-"

"Small details," Grace repeated coolly, internally giggling in delight. "The detailing on the band, to be exact. I've heard it described. I have been taught to pay attention. I knew that it was possible that I could be mistaken, of course, but you fit the physical descriptions I had heard- so I took a chance."

Kirkland gave a small huff that sounded almost like a laugh. "Small details," he echoed, picking up his teacup and taking a draught, his vivid gaze expectant.

"Oh…" Grace stared down into the depths of her half-empty cup, drawing a blank. The clear, dark walnut liquid swirled gently, her head spinning slightly with the motion. She felt exhausted. Grace wondered if being unconscious was equivalent to sleep. Probably not.

A question sprang to her lips before she had time to fully process it.

"What time is it?"

Kirkland's eyebrows contracted. "_That's_ your question?"

Grace lifted and dropped her shoulders in a delicate shrug. "Sure."

Kirkland paused, before tugging open the top drawer of his desk and reaching inside, papers rustling as he pulled out a brass pocket watch, a long sturdy chain slithering with a rasp of metal links behind it. The catch opened at the press of a button, cover flipping open. "Seven-sixteen in the morning, as of four seconds ago," Kirkland read off, before snapping the watch shut.

"Oh. That explains it," Grace murmured, rubbing her left temple. She lifted her cup to her lips again, hoping the tea would help with her impending headache.

Kirkland dropped the watch back in the drawer and closed it smoothly. He knocked his tea back in one sweep, his empty teacup hanging lightly off his index finger.

"Did you know that my men were out there, in the garden, last night?" He asked.

"Yes." Grace replied blandly, not so much as skipping a beat. Kirkland blinked in surprise. Staring into the distance musingly, Grace added, "Have you ever attended court?"

Kirkland took a few seconds to recover, raking his gloved fingers through his hair, the gold tresses gleaming, teacup still hooked on his fingertip at his side. "Yes, but- not for thirteen years; certainly not since my mother died. I was nine years old the last time. My father was entirely too busy to socialise with his peers often, as am I- half the year I spend at sea, and during the other half I have an entire world of things I would rather be doing than socialising with sheltered nobles whose opinions I couldn't give a toss about- ah, no offence intended to Your Highness."

Grace bit her lip, amused, in spite of herself, by his increasing candidness. "None taken- believe me."

"Oh… by the way…" Kirkland placed his teacup back down on its saucer. "How is the tea?"

"_That's_ your question?" She parroted him shamelessly.

"Sure," Kirkland said, shrugging, a smirk lazily inching across his face.

"Exquisite," Grace replied sincerely. Kirkland's eyes glittered with laughter.

"Your turn, Your Highness."

"Alright," Grace said, leaning back slightly in her seat and crossing her legs. Her thumb traced the rim of her saucer. "There is something I'm curious about. I once heard a tale of your crew singlehanded winning England a victory against three fully outfitted Spanish war ships. True or false?"

Kirkland grinned. "Both. It was actually three Spanish and a Prussian."

Grace had to raise her cup to hide her reluctant smile. If she ever escaped this situation alive, she would cheerfully destroy this man for attempting to bring harm to her sister- but in the meantime, she couldn't help but enjoy his overt honesty. In the gilded-cage world of manipulation and lies and subtle political games she had lived in for seventeen years, it was entirely too rare not to.

"What is your opinion of the Baron of Penrith?" Kirkland asked smoothly, his tone an amalgam of levity and seriousness, watching her with renewed interest.

"Penrith?" Grace repeated blankly. A face rose to the surface of her mind- goateed, brunette, with attractive but aging features cobbled together into a disjointed appearance of slick deviousness. "I don't know enough of him to have much of an opinion," she said. "I know that His Majesty likes his company and his manner well enough; he attends court often with his family, and I have heard he is a great contributor to His Majesty's ventures. His wife is kind, his daughters are polite- I don't know his sons, but what I have met of Penrith himself, he seems perfectly agreeable-"

"Don't lie, Your Highness," Kirkland interrupted coolly. "We agreed upon honesty."

Grace was silent for a second. "I don't think you will like the truthful answer."

Kirkland's eyes seared into her. "Oh? Try me."

Grace finished her tea and set her cup and saucer aside. "Fine," she said tonelessly. "Penrith is a snake. I trust him as far as I could throw him. Less than that. I hate him, actually. If he toppled off his horse and broke his neck tomorrow, I would quite happily drink to him never laying his filthy eyes on my sister again as if she were a prize cut of meat- not to mention His Majesty being free of yet another advisor dripping poison into his ears."

Kirkland folded his arms across his chest, staring up at the ceiling, and loosed a low, thoughtful, musical hum. "Now that _is_ honest."

"You _asked_ for honesty."

"It was an observation, Your Highness, not criticism. On the contrary, it's quite refreshing to hear that someone else despises and distrusts him as much as I do."

Grace bit her lower lip, hard, turning the supple flesh almost white.

"I am going to ask you again, Kirkland, and this time I expect an answer. Why did you attempt to abduct my sister?"

She watched his chest rise and fall in a soundless sigh, still staring up at the ceiling contemplatively. "If you have heard of me, Your Highness," he said quietly, "and of my family, then I will assume you know of my siblings."

Grace froze. She suddenly realised that she had stumbled upon a patch of dangerously thin ice. "Yes. Three brothers, all of them younger."

"That's right," Kirkland replied softly, expressionlessly. "Specifically, however, I wonder if you have heard of my brother Alfred." He suddenly laughed, bitterly. "What am I saying? Of course you know about Alfred."

Grace laced her fingers together, her tone soft and deliberately dispassionate. "Accused and currently held on charges of treason, pending trial. Yes, I heard."

Kirkland began pacing back and forth in front of his desk, his footfalls echoing, boots scraping against the floorboards as he pivoted on his sole.

"My father was a remarkable man," he began, slowly. "Clever. Fearless. Unapologetic for his skill and the acclaim and wealth it bought him. He took pride in what he was, his work, his reputation, his influence, and with good reason. And he took pride in us. Between him and our mother, my siblings and I were taught well, given all the tools we needed. After he died, five years ago, we were left with his legacy- our family's legacy- and thanks to them, we felt ready." Kirkland paused, staring down at his ring. "For a while, everything felt golden. And then… _things_ began to get in the way." He smiled hollowly. "Powerful men make powerful enemies. My father had many. And they survived him, unfortunately, to redirect their anger at us, his children… They found a single flaw in our ranks, and the next thing I know, my brother is in chains and being shipped off to some ocean fortress to 'await trial' on charges of treason."

He turned to her, still smiling hauntingly. "I will give you three guesses, Your Highness, as to who his accusers are. No- no, you're far sharper than that. One guess."

Something hot rose up inside Grace, uncoiling like a cobra- anger, realisation, and bleak validation. _I knew it._ "Penrith."

"Penrith," Kirkland ground out, fury rolling off him in waves. "He framed Alfred. That paperwork is forged, I'm sure of it- probably evidence of their own disloyalty, come to think of it, appropriated to accuse my brother. And of course, His Majesty listens to the charges- and he allows for Alfred to be exiled, to waste away in jail, awaiting a trial that will never come- because as you said yourself, Your Highness: Penrith is his _trusted confidant_."

"So you thought you would capture Katherine," Grace cut in on his infuriated tirade icily, "and either persuade or threaten her into convincing His Majesty of your brother's innocence?"

"What? No. No, of course not," Kirkland replied, looking genuinely surprised by the suggestion. "I thought that rescuing the heir to the English throne from a band of faceless, ruthless pirates would be enough to convince His Majesty of my family's loyalty to the crown and earn me the right to negotiate his release."

"Aha," Grace muttered, cocking her head to one side, something finally slotting into place within her mind. "Hence the masquerade with the false captain."

"Precisely." Grace watched Kirkland as he raised a hand, running his thumb and forefinger across his brows as if supressing a headache, his back to her. His silhouette was stark against the light of the windows, gold hair blazing, powerful yet weary.

Grace's gaze flicked away. Against her will, she felt a simmer of empathy.

"So I am not your enemy? That is a relief. It's nice to believe that some of my own country's nobility still take a neutral stance on their opinion of me. Also, that they don't despise me enough to kidnap me."

Kirkland looked up, bemused. "You don't… seem upset, Your Highness."

"It's hard to be," Grace answered nonchalantly, sweeping a rogue lock of hair behind her ear, "when you have confirmed a vital suspicion about one of my most despised enemies. Not to mention that, having done my research on the matter, I have no reason to doubt your brother's innocence- despite your actions."

He turned on his heel to face her fully.

"Your Highness?"

Grace bit her cheek, her voice turning to steel. "Captain Kirkland. We are at a stalemate and we both know it. You do not want to kill me any more than I want to force your hand. So why don't we strike a deal?"

She rose to her feet, mercifully holding firm in her footing in the ship's swaying. "I will keep up the charade you have designed," she said, her resolve hardening with every word. "I will go along with whatever story you choose, tell whatever lies you like, and never breathe a word of the truth so long as I live. In return, I want you to help me get rid of Penrith and his allies. I don't know what he and his associates are up to, but I _know_ that they are a threat to my king and country, and I want them out of the royal court and _ruined_. But I cannot do it alone."

For a long moment, he simply watched her as she fought to keep her static balance, his eyes guarded.

"Why are you doing this?" Kirkland eventually asked softly.

Grace sighed, her heart clenching inside her chest. "I… I happen to know a lot about protecting a sibling. Perhaps you cannot comprehend this, being the eldest of your bloodline, but… when you are the second heir, directly after a sibling, you have two choices: you can either become their greatest enemy, or their fiercest ally. And seeing as I am here and my sister is not…" Grace smiled humourlessly and gestured to herself. "Guess which I chose, Captain Kirkland."

A look of comprehension sparked to life on his face.

"Last night. You knew my men were there, and what they were after. You were protecting her."

Grace nodded, eyes lowering to her fingers. "Yes."

They were both silent, a growing understanding forming in the space between them.

"I don't trust you," Kirkland announced coldly.

Grace gave an unladylike snort. "Good, because I don't trust you either." She held out her hand expectantly, a smirk forming on her mouth.

"Well?"

He didn't hesitate, even for a split second. Kirkland stepped forwards and enclosed her hand in his, bloodstained skin and black leather. His grip was strong, the gleam in his emerald eyes victorious.

"We have an accord, Your Highness."


End file.
